Consequences of a Shattered Mind
by leylinjan
Summary: Young, travelling Harry Potter. PreHogwarts. Eventually: TalentedHP, PowerfulHP. Warnings: some spoilers. ChildAbuse (not graphic) in the first few chapters. OCs. NotCanonCompliantAtAll.
1. Chapter 1

A.N.: Please, please tell me in case I missed something and I _do _own Harry Potter. That'd be awesome, and I wouldn't need to worry about next semester's tuition anymore ... hehe. So, for everyone who read this last sentence half asleep: As far as I know, I am not J.K. Rowling, I also do not own Harry Potter, nor his parents, nor his friends, nor - well, you get my point. If I _were_ J.K. Rowling, I wouldn't post here, but rather publish new books exploring all kinds of AU and plot holes. And make money, of course. Toodles.

A.N.: I know that the following story may not be all that realistic – !ALERT! Sarcasm !ALERT! – but this is fanfiction, people ;). Don't think about this happening in _your_ backyard, it won't – or rather, it should never… Child abuse is a **very serious thing**, but it is very rarely/never as bad as I portrayed it here. It's _meant_ to be exaggerated, and I'm not being graphic. I don't attempt to romanticize the concept or to lessen its severity in any way. If I have offended anyone, it was not my intention and I'm sorry. Having been a victim myself, though my case was very light, I can understand very well the sensitivity and severity of this topic.

...

**Warnings: Spoilers, spoilers, spoilers. ChildAbuse.**

"**Bold" – **quotes from the HP books

"text" – quote

'text' – thoughts

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**November 1****st****, 1981**

"**One small hand closed on the letter beside him and he slept on, not knowing he was special, not knowing he was famous, not knowing he would be woken in a few hours' time by Mrs. Dursley's scream as she opened the front door to put out the milk bottles, nor that he would spend the next few weeks being prodded and pinched by his cousin Dudley...**

**He couldn't know that at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices: "To Harry Potter - the boy who lived!" "**

-COASM-COASM-COASM-COASM-COASM-COASM-COASM-COASM-C OASM-COASM-

It was a rainy Friday morning and had a stranger stumbled unto Privet Drive number 4 he would have come across a very unusual sight. However, no stranger passed the quaint little house that day at quarter past five, and thus no stranger saw the – to the neighbours – long no longer unusual sight.

At first glance, it would have looked as if a thin mountain of dirt was placed right in the middle of the garden, behind two big shrubs of privet. Nevertheless, had one moved close enough, one could have seen the slight tremor in the 'mountain', too strong to be explained away by the slight autumn-wind that was rustling the leaves of the trees and bushes.

The neighbours had long learned not to pay attention to the sometimes unusual and harsh punishments of the Dursley's ward, for it was a vile little vagabond that would rob you blind the moment you turned your back on it. Mrs Spencer from number 5 was continuously missing apples from her favourite tree, Mr Longley from number 7 (he was living alone with two little girls and no mother to speak of – what a scandal!) knew that it was him who had trampled his roses just one day after he had given the menace a friendly greeting on the street. And he was only trying to be polite!

The lump knew nothing of that, it just knew that it had to wait. That it wasn't to touch the roses, or the walls, " 'cause they'd get dirty, freak!" as Dudley had helpfully pointed out. Somewhere deep down it knew that something about its whole situation did not fit, but it did not really care all that much.

All it knew was that it was cold, that it had been cold 10 hours ago when he had had to go here for his 'attitude adjustment'. It felt the all familiar all-encompassing hunger, but it was used to that and did not act on his sentiment. That would have overstepped its boundaries. It was different from all the humans living on the street it knew that. Sometimes it would wish for warmth, but these rare times it squashed that feeling immediately, for comfort was never known and deemed impossible.

It rarely felt anything. 'Feelings', _emotions, _those were for real people. For real children who had parents, who had friends, who _mattered. _Its sense of self was all but squashed. It didn't even know what it meant to feel, to be _some_one… The only things that ever mattered to it were whether it would get food or not, whether it was cold or not, whether it had been good or not. More often than not, it had been bad. At least that's what 'Aunt' Petunia said. ("Filthy lying disgusting freak! We feed you, we clothe you and how do you pay us back?! Be _good_ for once in your life!") Dudley was good, Dudley mattered. It didn't quite understand how or why, but it knew that it was so.

That Dudley was good was _true_, and _true_ was good. _Lies, _on the other hand, were _bad. _It lied_ all the time._ It didn't quite understand how that could be, how he could _lie_, without ever talking, but it accepted that it was so. 'Aunt' Petunia had said so, and she knew it all.

-COASM-COASM-COASM-COASM-COASM-COASM-COASM-COASM-C OASM-COASM-COASM-

The birds had long started to sing, and the sun was already peeking over the roof of Mrs Figg's house, when the first cars started to pass by, but number four remained silent and _It_ did not move.

.

When the milkman passed by around quarter to seven, a shudder seemed to go through _It_. As soon as he had left, _It _moved from his spot near the scrubs of privet and made his way towards the house, only stopping to pick up the bottles of milk left near the front door. _It_ took both of _its_ shoes off, used the key left under the flowerpot to open the backdoor, and tiptoed into the kitchen.

There was breakfast to prepare.

The date was the 31st July 1987.

_It_ didn't know the date, and even if _It_ would have known, _It _wouldn't have cared.

Harry James Potter had just turned seven years old.

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So? What do you think?

**Review please!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** If changing my name officially to J-O-A-N-N-E K. R-O-W-L-I-N-G would give half of the rights to our beloved Harry to me, I'd do it in a heartbeat. However, I'm glad to say, that doesn't work. Otherwise we would all be named thusly. And it'd be really hard to find a decent guy to date.

A.N.: This chapter was originally supposed to lead up to the meeting with the other main character, an OC, (I even wrote that part of the scene already!) but then it seemed to grow and grow, so I just had to cut it off somewhere - I promised myself that I would write longer chapters than the previous one wherever I can and I didn't want to set the stakes too high right away ^^

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_"Cogito Ergo Sum" (Renée Descartes)_

_ [I think, therefore I am]_

_._

**September 21****st****, 1987**

_Ding-Dong._

Mrs Dursley was watching her favourite TV series, _My Husband, My Mansion, and I,_ and did not appreciate being disturbed, not at all. She did not expect anyone, nor any package, and hoped that whoever was ringing the doorbell at nine AM and was thusly trying to ruin her Monday morning, would just disappear or come back another day. She was busy.

_Ding-Dong._

_Ding-Ding-Ding-Di _

–Apparently whoever it was could just not take a hint. For a second she contemplated to make the freak open the door, but she didn't know who was at the door, and the risk – no matter how small – that it was someone who did not know about _Its _depravity, was not one she would take.

-_ing-Di_

It could even be the new neighbour ("Single, at that age!", Mrs Spencer had confided in her.) that had moved into the old cat-lady's house, which had been empty for several years.

The old lady had been quite strange, Mrs Dursley remembered, but she had died in a completely–normal–and–not–in–any–way_–freakish_ car accident. Though it had been terrible, and it had happened just two streets away! It had taken months before the children of the district had returned to playing on the streets. Her darling Dudley had been way to small back then, thankfully, had it happened today she would have had a problem. He was such a strong minded little angel!

_-ing-_

No, she couldn't task _It_ with opening the door. Even if not for the risk, the freak was in the cupboard under the stairs, after rightfully having served the family their well-deserved breakfast, and she would have to get up anyway to open the lock.

She started mournfully for another moment at the bright-coloured TV screen,

_Ding._

but then she turned it off, checked her hairstyle in the small hand mirror that she always carried with her, and made to open the front door, where the insistent troublemaker had taken to adamant knocking. Her eyebrow twitched. She took a deep breath and opened the door with a glacial expression and a frown.

A man and a woman in uniform were standing on her front yard.

_Police. _

Her mind supplied, while she stood there unblinkingly. But they couldn't know anything, could they? There had never been any-

'No', she firmly decided. 'It's something else. They're probably not even at the right house.'

Trying to clear her expression to hide her frantic thought she offered the police officers a blinding, only slightly trembling smile.

"Could I help you with anything, officers? You must excuse my slight delay, but I wasn't expecting anyone today."

They regarded her neutrally. She couldn't decipher their expressions. The man spoke:

"Yes, Mrs Dursley, is it? Could we come inside for a moment?"

"Oh has something happened to my husband? Or my precious Dudley? Are they alright?", Mrs Dursley asked frantically, with only a fraction of a second's hesitation.

'It's not about _It_', her thoughts screamed, 'it's **not**!'

The woman smiled thinly at her.

"Nothing of the sort, Mrs Dusley. Could we take this inside? Your husband is at work, I presume?"

Mrs Dursley swallowed nervously, her smile only marginally waning.

"Of course, of course. Come in. Yes, my husband is at work and my son at school. I am a housewife, so I remain at home."

She beckoned them inside and closed the door after them, her eyes catching the stare of Mrs Sanders from number 9, who had stopped cutting her roses in favour of watching the developing scene in front of number 4. When a throat was cleared behind her, she tore her eyes away, closed the door resolutely, and directed another exceedingly bright smile at the police officers.

"Neighbours", she explained amusedly, refusing to contemplate that right at this moment, Mrs Sanders must be on her way towards Mrs Spencer. The both of them would then take to strolling in number five's garden, in the hope of catching a word or a look about the reason for the official visit.

She led them towards the living room and towards the couch. The woman was looking interestedly at the family pictures that were adorning the walls all around.

"Could I offer you some tea?", Mrs Dursley asked, already on the way to the kitchen.

The officers exchanged a look.

"That would be very kind, Mrs Dursley", the man answered.

While Mrs Dursley was preparing the tea, her heart was seemingly trying to jump out of her chest. She felt eyes upon her, and tried to ignore them and the slight murmur of voices from the living room. Mrs Sanders and Mrs Spencer had done as expected, so what? She occupied her trembling hands with preparing the biscuits, and if one or two of them fell to the ground, who cared? The freak could clean them up later. That was _Its _purpose after all. It always had been.

Taking the tray into her still faintly shaking hands, she set another smile on her face and re-entered the living room, where the officers were still examining the pictures on the wall. At her entry, they turned to look at her.

The man jumped up to help her, while the woman smiled widely at her.

"You have a wonderful family, Mrs Dursley"

She served the tea, her hopes that everything was going to be okay raised again. Maybe she had just imagined the tense atmosphere before. Maybe the police officers had just been too stressed. The woman and the man before her seemed very happy, now that they had tea and biscuits.

"Yes, I am very proud of both of them and we love each other very much. My husband was promoted to head of department at Grunnings just last February, and my son is already in third year of primary school."

The woman smiled conspiratorially at her, "I know, I know, but you miss him anyway, right? I know the feeling, with my Tommy. Even though he is already in school for four years, I still seem to expect his little head pocking around the corner. They grow so quickly, right? Why I remember when Tommy had his first tooth he just wouldn't stop crying, and now…? But your boy seems to be quite fine, very strong!"

Mrs Dursley relaxed further. "Yes, my Dudley is fine, indeed. Of course, they all grow quickly. Why just yesterday I was talking to Mrs Ashdown, who also lives here on Privet Drive with her husband and her two kids …"

And they continued talking and exchanging stories, Mrs Dursley relaxing more and more.

Had she been anyone else, she might have felt suspicious of the fact that two _police _officers just came to her just to talk about their respective children, but they had found her two weak points: Dudley and gossip. Mrs Dursley had only one thing that she loved more than both of them and that was boasting about her Dudley to others. Thus, the police officers were in luck. Or maybe, they had just judged her too well.

The tea kettle was nearly empty when the woman asked, seemingly indifferent,

"It must be difficult to raise two boys so close in age, does your son get along well with your nephew?"

"Why with that good–for–nothing freak?"

_Silence. _

The police officers directed grave looks at her. Mrs Dursley looked horrified, her eyes wide, and her hands were raised in front of her mouth. She looked pleadingly at them, but did not speak.

The man cleared his throat and began speaking in a serious voice that seemed to resonate all through the house.

"Mrs Dursley, we are here about your charge, your nephew. Allegations have been made, and we were chosen to investigate."

She still did not speak and remained frozen on the armchair.

How could she have been so stupid?

Still, all was not lost. _It _had not made a sound throughout the conversation, and she did not expect _It _to do that now.

"What do you mean, 'my charge'? I remember my sister as a horrible girl, even worse woman, and no children of hers could be any better!"

'Lie only as a last resort, misdirect them, they don't know anything, they don't!' The words were repeated over and over, faster and faster in her mind, until they blurred.

The woman looked pityingly and disgusted at her, as if she was nothing. She hated that. Lily had had the same look in the end.

"Your sister is dead, Mrs Dursley, has been for nearly six years, **_and you know it._**"

The man's wide smile showing his unnaturally white teeth resembled that of a shark that had caught the scent of its prey. Like in those horror movies Vernon was obsessed with. She shuddered and averted her eyes.

"Oh, that she is, I suppose. Though I have not had any contact with her for about twice that time. She was a despicable child."

She flinched when the man slammed his tea cup on the table – her good china!

"_Enough_, Mrs Dursley. This is not about your sister and whether or not you had you petty little disagreements with her, this is about your nephew, a child of only seven years."

Mrs Dursley pressed her lips together and stubbornly lifted her chin.

"_Where is your nephew_, Mrs Dursley? He lives with you. He is neither in school nor in any nursery, so he must be here. Why has he not made any noise so far and _where is his room_?" The last words question was shouted loudly.

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**Harry's POV**

Itwas warm, too warm. _It _had been grateful when _It_ had been invited to spend the day in the house after breakfast, on the nice mattress that was in the cupboard, just for _It_. But it was hot.

'So hot', _It _thought feverishly.

'Maybe I am –', he stopped that train of thoughts immediately, remembering flashes of his past.

_"Look Vernon, the freak thinks It has got the right to compare Itself with normal people!", Mrs Dursley shrieked hysterically._

_ "I tink – ", she imitated mockingly the imperfect pronunciation of a three-year-old It. _

_Mrs Dursley continued: "It dares say that to me! It is imitating darling Dudley. I don't want It here anymore. We should just do away with It!"_

_"Now, now Pet, calm down", Mr Dursley said soothingly to his wife, "why don't you take Dudley, go lay down and let me handle that?"_

_They exchanged a look, that It missed because Its eyes were lowered to the ground. Then It heard Mrs Dursley walk up the stairs. _

_"Now freak, what did we say about the freak's position in this household?" Mr Dursley asked nastily._

_It began reciting obediently: "flleak is awways adlless – " _

_It was thrown backwards into the wall by the force of Mr Dursley's punch. _

_"Did I instruct the freak to say anything? I have the feeling that It needs another lesson…" Mr Dursley's eyes were alight with glee, had one cared to look. _

_It certainly did not dare, instead choosing to watch the blood from his right cheek fall down into his hand, where he caught it in order to avoid damaging the light-coloured carped of the living room. _

_It neither looked up when Mr Dursley continued mocking It, nor when Mr Dursley came closer and closer to where he was slumped down the wall, nor when he heard the rustle of Mr Dursley's belt coming undone. _

_It also didn't look up when he was finally hauled up and thrown to the ground in the hallway in front of the Cupboard Under The Stairs._

_When the pain came, It barely felt it at first. It was too busy contemplating the difference between It and… them. Children. Dudley. And when he finally started feeling the pain It swore to Itself that It wouldn't do this mistake again. It would make Mr and Mrs Dursley proud!_

With time It had realised that 'making them proud', would never work and was also not desirable. 'Traitorous thoughts', as It liked to call them, came to It again and again. In the beginning, It squashed the thoughts and the accompanying feelings right away, but with time, It started to at least _think _of himself as a 'he', even though he could never say it out loud.

Nowadays, it was only when he was very sick, 'feeling woozy', as he liked to think of it, that he still referred to himself as _It_. It was more of a safety–mechanism, as he tended to be unable to distinguish between thoughts and speech when he had a fever and often mumbled senseless things.

And right now, _It _was indeed feeling very woozy.

Some time ago, the doorbell had rung, _It _remembered hazily. That meant _It_ couldn't knock on the inside of the door.

_"The freak isn't to draw attention to Itself. Not ever."_

_It_ groaned inaudibly and fell into a doze.

_"– and where is his room?" _A shout managed to shock _It_ out of its slumber, and he inadvertently hit one of his legs against the wall of the cupboard, which gave a muffled sound.

'Oh no', _It _thought.

For a moment, it seemed as if nothing would happen, but then _It _heard fast steps approaching his Cupboard.

'Oh no, oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no no no no no no no nonononononono…', _Its_ thoughts had become frantic, and he did not even notice that he had started speaking aloud. He repeated them continuously in a mantra, as if that would help avert the looming catastrophe.

He was _so_ going to get it.

His frantic breaths and slurred "no's!" had become so fast, that he had trouble breathing. When the door of his Cupboard was rattled and raised voiced carried through the thin wall, he finally passed out from fever, lack of oxygen, and all the stress.

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_**So people, what do you think? R & R please!**_


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **If one could buy Harry Potter, I would be the very first in line. I would stand there and stare, shake my head, and start to stammer. J.K Rowling would look at me, maybe smiling patiently, maybe with an annoyed twitch of her eyebrow. After I – stammering – indicated my interest, she would ask me what I offered. And then I would blush and run…

**A.N.:** Don't know enough about geography in the UK to be able to make the actual locations realistic. Thus, just imagine that Little Whinging is quite close to Cokeworth – location of Spinners' End (Severus Snape's childhood home) AND location of the hotel the Dursley's spend the night with Harry on the Wild-Letter-Escapade from the Philosopher's Stone (with Vernon driving so erratically, they could actually have been quite close to their actual home) – close enough, anyway, that the following scene could have happened. Don't bug me about the logistics, okay?

Also, if the police here don't follow proper procedure, well that's their own fault – you could report them to their superiors, if you'd like, but I'd prefer you'd not.

**A.N.:** I just wanted to thank all the amazing people that reviewed, followed, and 'favourited' this story. I always felt so guilty when I put new drabbles and one shots up, but I didn't forget this story, not at all! I have plans, so many plans *Muhahaha..* - just kidding. But truth is, I **was** thinking about COASM a lot, and for my long-term project, I think it is best if – in the beginning – I just let the ideas stew a little, so that the good ones become clearer, and the bad ones will be forgotten. If you read some of my drabbles, you noticed that the quality varied a lot. (Which is **_bad._**) I really don't want that for this story.

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**Interlude: Policewoman's POV**

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When I heard about the allegations made against this family today morning, I was a bit sceptical at first. Or rather, I wanted to be. Not that the case seemed to be all that severe in the beginning:

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**_Flashback_**

_A few days before, during my indoors shift, a middle aged man had been directed to my office. His claim had been that there was a school-aged child that did not attend school living a few doors from his home. _

I winced, that was a common problem in the neighbourhood. But I pulled myself together, offered him a seat, and made to take his details.

Boy, was I in for a surprise! I took his details, and was quite surprised to notice that he was _not _from Cokeworth, but from an adjoining district in the neighbouring county Surrey. So, _what was he doing __**here**__ of all places?_

Was this supposed to be a bad joke?

I looked at him: "Not to be rude, Sir, but this is not exactly our business, is it? We could give you directions to the local police station, if you'd like that. I'm sure they could help you."

As I spoke, I could see his expression first becoming disappointed, then even more determined.

"Pardon officer, but that is regrettably not an option." His grey eyes were kind, but hard.

And then he started to talk. And his words seemed to become more ludicrous with every sentence that he spoke: uncaring neighbours, never–investigated complaints to the police, corrupt head teachers, and in the midst of it all, one lonely boy who, would it not have been for his gender, could be seen as a modern Cinderella.

It sounded fantastical, like a badly written play or like the newest conspiracy theory read right off _The Sun's _title page. I made not much effort to hide my patronizing tone:

"Are you certain that the boy doesn't just like playing in the dirt – that's how children at that age _are._ And maybe he is even still too young for school – he could be big for his age!"

The man gave a mirthless laugh.

"Big? _Big?_ You haven't seen the boy, he is skin and bones!"

The man was panting slightly and his voice was rising steadily.

"He has the height of a _four_–year–old, and I know that he must be _at least_ six because he and his cousin, who is overweight, are supposed to be close in age. The neighbours do talk about them; it is just that whenever the boy is concerned, they see the devil in disguise." He visibly forced himself to calm down.

I blankly looked at him, feeling horrified, but still not sure what to believe. He did not avoid my searching eyes, but met my stare head on. I could discern that for him, at least, this was not a joke.

"Very well," I hesitated and examined him once more "We will investigate this promptly, I assure you of that."

He said nothing, but after some scrutinizing, I had apparently passed his inspection. Obviously feeling satisfied with his findings, he nodded once and stood up from his chair.

"Thank you officer, I really appreciate it." He shook my hand and made to walk through the door.

"Sir…" He paused at my words, his hand already on the door handle and looked at me expressionlessly.

"Sir, if you are right in your suspicions..." I stopped this train of thoughts. I didn't _want_ him to be right.

"You are a good person, Sir."

His lips widened into a short, pained smile.

Then he was gone.

**_End Flashback_**

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Today, when my partner Jess and I first rang the doorbell at number four, no one opened, although we knew the woman to be home. This made the underlying bad feeling I had had since the man's visit to my office come back in full force, before 'Mrs Dursley' had even opened the door.

We had spent the last few days doing preliminary investigation. We checked directories and asked nursery schools, primary schools, hospitals, and doctors in close proximity, but the child was not registered to ever have visited any of those, which was rare in itself. Children were supposed to get vaccinations, they were prone to stomach-aches, the flu … there were childhood diseases that needed to be tested for. Besides, the other boy, the child's cousin, had been to nursery school _and_ the doctor's. _He _had gotten all his vaccinations and had been to the hospital, _twice_, and was still remembered as the 'boy with the overbearing hysterical mother'.

_"Another one, you say?" The nurse scrunched her nose thoughtfully and looked to her colleague. "Not that I noticed… and if there had been another one we would have remembered for sure, with __**that**__ kind of guardians…"_

The signs were all there, but I still hoped that there was _some_ kind of reasonable explanation for all this.

But all through our "talk" with Mrs Dursley, the rest of the house was utterly completely _ominously _silent. Five to seven year old boys were_ not_ that silent. Or if they were, the parent or guardian in question would be worried enough to check up on them immediately, to avoid them setting the house on fire. (My Tommy tried burning our tablecloths once, when he was five, because he didn't like how they "hid the table", and it nearly gave me a heart-attack.) No, there was something _wrong_ here.

If the boy was not in the house, _where was he?_

The woman was totally relaxed in our company by then.

'Which proves just how vapid and foul she really is', I thought vindictively. 'Time to find out what is truly going on here…'

Jess seemed to sense my rapidly declining mood. Normally he was the short tempered one, but when it comes to children, my patience always runs out quickly. After so many years of working together, he knew that about me very well. He caught my eye for a short moment, and gave a tiny discrete nod before quickly returning to complement our 'host' – I snorted inwardly – on her "Darling Dudley's" childish scratchy paintings, which were 'adorning' all the walls of the living room.

Trying to sound dispassionate, yet empathetic, I asked the crucial question:

_"It must be difficult to raise two boys so close in age; does your son get along well with your nephew?"_

And her damning answer: _"Why with that good–for–nothing freak?"_

We had her. She knew that as well. It surprised me that she noticed her mistake that quickly, but I guess that she had practice from years and years of covering up on that front. And the suspicions of the man and our own findings seemed to make frightening sense, which alarmed me greatly.

When Jess used his no-nonsense voice on her, she nearly succumbed. Of course, afterwards she tried to talk herself out of it anyway, though without much luck.

Jess is good like that.

I normally love to see him work, though with the situation being so severe, I remained completely serious and focused.

_Where is the child? Is he alright? Hurry, Jess, hurry! I've got a very bad feeling…_

Outwardly I showed no expression, though my heart was beating fast. I hated cases such as these, where children were involved.

Jess had finally started to shout.

_ "__**Where is your nephew,**__ Mrs Dursley? He lives with you. He is neither in school nor in any nursery, so he must be here. Why has he not made any noise so far and __**where is his room**__?" _

A nearly inaudible whimper reached my ears. Mrs Dursley winced, though Jess appeared not to have noticed anything in his agitated state.

"Wait!" I hissed: "Shhh… Did you hear that?"

I completely ignored Mrs Dursley who seemed to try to make herself as small as possible. Just as she summed up the courage and was about to speak again, probably to divert our attentions, there was another sound:

A groan, coming from the direction of the hallway.

Jess and I jumped up immediately, taking no notice of the by now frantic Mrs Dursley.

Jess is faster than me, but he stayed rooted once in the hallway. I made a shushing motion to Mrs Dursley with my hands, when she again tried to raise our attention. This was no time for games anymore. Our not so quiet sprint seemed to have reached the ears of the up-to-then unknown observer, because soon after we could hear a series of "no's", steadily increasing in volume.

Jess ran up the stairs, but came back down immediately and shook his head. I checked the kitchen, even throwing open all the cabinets and sideboards in my worry.

Nothing.

"Honestly, do you people have a search-warrant?" The screeching voice of Mrs Dursley in the background "When my husband hears of this…" – But I had noticed something, finally.

Padlocks.

_Two_ of them. In front of the Cupboard under the stairs, which was normally always used for shoes, cleaning supplies and waterproofs, if not jackets and anoraks for everyday use. This house was otherwise set-up and furnished in a typical English suburban style. Mrs Dursley had seemed like the most fanatically 'normal' housewife. So why was _that_ cupboard locked?

"The key" I said frostily. "Mrs Dursley, 'please' open the cupboard for us." My voice made no secret that this was _not_ a suggestion.

After some more drama that went from threats to wanting to see our 'search warrant' to this being a 'free country' to me exerting an astonishing amount of self-control… and finally ended with me trying all the keys that were conveniently placed on the key hooks by the entrance.

"You do not have the right!" Mrs Dursley shrieked. "What are you _doing?_" She seemed long past caring that her actions were only making us even more suspicious, but by then I had finally managed to find the right key and the padlock sprang open.

I hurried to pry the door open, my hands trembling with suppressed emotion.

Nothing could have prepared me for the sight inside.

**End Interlude**

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When Police Officer Sarah Kingston opened the door to the Cupboard Under The Stairs in Number 4, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, she never could have imagined what effect this outwardly small action would have on the fate of the world even years and years in the future.

But she couldn't have known anything neither could her partner Jess, Mrs Dursley, or even anyone else – muggles and wizards alike.

Only three people had even a hint of an idea. The first was a girl with waiflike golden blond hair. She was sitting in midst a valley of beautiful flowers humming softly in a peculiar language, when she suddenly opened her eyes, jumped up and danced in circles, her laughter pealing like silvery bells.

The second, an old man with long beard in a tower up north all of a sudden had the feeling as if something was fundamentally _different_ in the world, but he didn't know what had changed. He looked to his steady companion, a red-golden fiery bird as old as Magic herself. The phoenix looked calmly back at the old wizard and let out a contented thrill. After throwing a fleeting glance at the numerous instruments in the circular office, the man set his quill down and quickly exited the room through the fireplace.

The third, a woman in a small cottage in the wilderness in a country up north took a step back from the highly ornamented shining silver basin that looked so out of place in the simple cottage. Her milky-white eyes fixed on nothing particular she stood by the window letting a breeze of wind blow over her expressionless face. She knew what was coming, and thus she would wait.

.

.

When Officer Sarah Kingston opened the door of the Cupboard Under The Stairs,

Harry Potter went silent,

A whole shelf of silvery delicate looking instruments in the now empty circular office worked in a frenzy before becoming motionless again,

And a small, unassuming practically transparent glass ball positioned on one of countless nearly identical shelves in a room on the ninth level of the British Ministry of Magic, went black.

No one would notice any of this for several years.

* * *

.

_A.N.: Oh-oh this chapter was supposed to lead up much further – Harry was supposed to be the main character in this chappie already. Fear not, from hereon it will mostly be Harry's and the other main character's POV (OC) who will be introduced in chapter 4. This story will be slow paced – there will be many chapters before Harry is eleven._

_A.N.2: __**Please, R & R**__, suggestions are welcome! :)_


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